Thursday, December 10, 2015

I had occasion to make a sojourn to a small town out in the
country recently. It was for the purpose of having a face to face meeting with
a lovely pair of people who I am connected with through Social Media. The
destination is a halfway, or close to a halfway point between our residences.
They are like minded folk who share similarities on such subjects of import.
Politics, insanity, the difference between right and wrong, and many other
forms of inanity are but a few topics which we equally engender and feel it
imperative to comment on when given the chance. We are a trio of
well-travelled, well read, and well intentioned citizens of the world. It was
an amazing opportunity and I thank them for giving me the opportunity of
sharing some of their time with me.

The trip was somewhat bittersweet as it required me to ride
past the farm of a gentleman I knew before he passed away. It gave me time to
reflect on days gone by. I searched the side of the road for a location to
place the castle I hope to build once I become this millennium’s Stephen King
by selling a billion or so books. It let me open the window and smell some
country air, and revel in the glory of what the earth has to offer if one just
takes the time to look about. Given that is was initiated through the absurdity
of Social Media, it came as a restful respite from my day to day norm.

The small town with the amazing old country café was along a
line that included another small city which I had never been to. It was just
five miles further and I was forty minutes early so I decided to list it as one
of the “Places I’ve been to” in the probable travelogue I will eventually write
and publish. It seems an easy project from the one I am currently pursuing
which entails becoming either vastly wealthy or unilaterally unloved.

I rolled into town to be greeted, first by a school bus
painted pink that has had the hood and cab converted to portray the head of a
pig/hog. It was the “Welcome to…” sign for the community. The transfiguration
from a school bus to a porcine herald seemed more a harbinger then a jocund
salutation. The welding and sheet metal additions were of a less than expert
level fashioning. It sort of reminded me of what you might find from someone
with a shop in his garage with way too many tools that he does not really know
how to use. Still, if looked at with a less discerning eye, it serves the
purpose it was placed there.

Next to it is the “Harmony Wedding Chapel. This appears to
be just what the name states and it is a locality that has made me rethink the
location of my next wedding. I am firm in my decision that if I should choose
to enter an association with another person that results in participation in
the institution of marriage, such happenstance will be initiated in Las Vegas
with the Elvis Guy officiating. Barring that, I am certain that the Harmony
Wedding Chapel would serve me well.

There is an eclectic assembly of small businesses that I
found to be of certain interest. There is The Forge Bistro which conjures
thoughts of manly victuals that are not terribly good for one, but probably
taste like heaven. The implication of manliness coming from the insensitive
mind of a writer that prefers cheeseburgers, meatloaf, chicken fried steak, and
catfish to sushi, Panini’s, and Falafel, all served with French Fries, Mashed
Potatoes and a side of green/pinto beans or a simple house salad with Ranch
dressing.

There is the Lilli Pepper Clothing store that the outside is
decorated like a junk shop on the order of Sanford and Son mercantile from
television memory. There is a more feminine flare to the decorations and, I
suspect, and owner behind the cash register dressed in a large drooping turtle
neck, a peasant skirt, half lens reading glasses hung from a chain around her
neck, and her hair loosely tied up with a pencil stuck in it. This might be an
outrageous misnomer and I apologize if it is. I was sitting in my truck talking
into my memo app on my phone. It is all speculation, but I suspect that some of
this is both veritable and factual,

There is Ben Creative Arts Center that left me wanting in my
limited ability to imagine, visualize, or fantasize a readable description of
this enterprise. I wish them well and have some comfort in that I have not been
guilty of falsehood in the least kind.

There is a place called The Secret Garden which had various
signs and announcements outside one of which made mention of New Orleans and
another hinting at hidden treasure within. Again, I found nothing witty to say,
or apologize for.

I saw a sign for a place named Beyond the Picket Fence and
it was just that, just a simple sighting of a building sitting in the back of a
parking lot and holding some mystery to me. The hour was fast approaching for
my rendezvous for victuals and I drove off.

The last thing I saw was a van, backing into one of the businesses
I have not mentioned that looked as if it might belong to a hippie commune. I
had seen it when first arriving in town parked in a driveway just past the area
of commerce and thought it to be to owner’s residence. I did not see what it
said on the side and that intrigued me.

I found a spot to turn around to head for my repast and
noticed a knifesmith. There were a few other places that initially held no
interest for me and I went off in search of what turned out to be a decent
plate of catfish. While eating my companions and I spoke of this place I
visited and came to the conclusion that it might be peopled by folks who
formerly lived in a larger city and moved to the country, or just bought a home
in the country for weekend sojourns much the same as I. The experience
certainly affected me and I believe I might just dig a little deeper into Ben
Wheeler, TX next month when I once more meet my friends. This time I think it
just might just be the chicken fried steak the café is purported to be famous
for.